admiral of the navy force and fleet made all sail for a larger port on the coast of a neighbouring republic, where he traded a hastily collected cargo of fruit for its value in cartridges for the five Martini rifles, the only guns that the navy could boast. Then to the telegraph office sped the admiral. Sprawling in his favourite corner, in his fast-decaying uniform, with his prodigious sabre distributed between his red legs, he waited for the long-delayed, but now soon expected, orders.
“Not yet, Señor el Almirante,” the telegraph clerk would call to him—“poco tiempo!”’
At the answer the admiral would plump himself down with a great rattling of scabbard to await the infrequent tick of the little instrument on the table.
“They will come,” would be his unshaken reply; “I am the admiral.”
